Where the Sidewalk Ends
by scarves-and-jumpers
Summary: John always thought that Sherlock's relationship with the Homeless Network was one of clinical respect - you scratch my back, I scratch yours. He was wrong, of course; they were his family. A series of oneshots revolving around Sherlock, the Homeless Network, and John. May eventually contain Johnlock.
1. Rosie and Arthur

The first thing John notices when he enters 221B is the presence of a young woman. He stops in the doorway when he notices her, one shoe already off, the other dangling from his foot. He stares at her. She stares at him. Her appearance is grubby; soot covers her face, dirt and grime covering nearly every inch of bare skin. Her clothes are in only slightly better condition – ripped, stained, covered in lazily sewn patches.

" ...Hi?" John says slowly. He hears a calm "'Lo" and notices a small bundle in her arms, one pink, slightly grimy foot sticking out of the end – a baby.

" ...Um. Sorry, are... How can..." John isn't sure how to respond to this. He's used to strange things popping up in the flat when he gets home from work, but a whole person – two whole persons, actually – is a bit new. And extreme, even for Sherlock.

"Don't worry, mate," She says with a grin. He's nodding weakly when she continues, "I'll be out of your 'air soon enough, promise." She readjusts the baby in her arms. "You're John Watson, yeah?" He nods again and slowly lowers his other shoe to the floor. He gravitates toward the kitchen – tea, tea is what he should do. Tea is normal, tea is safe. Jesus Christ, what - "It's nice to finally meet you, act'ully. Mr. 'Omes's been going on and on bout you. It's nice to 'ave a face to go with the stories."

"Stories?" John peeked out into the living room. He held out the kettle – tea? She nodded, accepting the unspoken offer. He set to work.

"Yeah, stories. Mr. 'Omes still comes by the 'ouse, tells us about your adventures all the time."

"Yeah, sorry, what?"

"The 'ouse. You know." She gave him an amused look.

"'Fraid I don't, actually. Sorry, who-" He was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming open and shut. Sherlock's voice boomed up - "Back, Rosie! Got it!" - followed quickly by the thump thump thump of his shoes as he hurried up the stairs. John edged into the living room as he entered the flat, flinging open the door to the living room in a flourish of limbs and coat. Rosie rolled her eyes.

"'Bout bloody time, yeah?" She scowled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and approached her, holding out a plastic bag, Tesco's label proudly crinkling as it swung to and fro. "Here. That's the right type." It was a statement, but John could hear a slight hesitation, questioning himself. Rosie glanced inside and grinned up at him, nodding. "Yeah. Thanks a mill, Sherlock, you're a life saver."

"Yes, well." The detective waved a hand dismissively, then flung the bag to the floor – a small box of powdered baby formula fell out onto the carpet – and he held out his hands. "Here, I'll take him. Go, shower. Leave your clothes by the door." Rosie's grin widened at his words, and she handed him the baby in a flurry of 'Thank-you's and 'You're a saint's. John marveled as the woman strode past him to Sherlock's bathroom – she obviously knew her way around the flat. As soon as the door shut, he rounded on his flatmate.

"What – who the hell is she?" He hissed. Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention. He was rocking the baby back and forth with a practiced ease, texting on his mobile with his free hand. "Sherlock!"

"Mm- Sorry, what?" Sherlock replied distractedly. He glanced up at John, then looked back to his mobile. "Oh. That's Rosie. This is Arthur." He added as an after thought, nodding down at the baby.

"What are they -"

"She was out of baby formula. I owed her a favor." He replied by way of explanation. Which left rather a lot to be desired, if you asked John, but it was an explanation none-the-less. He sighed and returned to the kitchen, finishing the preparation of their tea. He heard the shower running. Rosie's clothes lay in a neat pile outside the door.

Eventually, Sherlock made his way to the clothes. He grabbed them, not seeming to mind the dirt that smeared on his hands, and tossed them into the washing machine, following up with some detergent and starting the machine. John didn't even know he knew how to use the machine in the first place, but he supposed that he shouldn't be surprised – of course Sherlock would only do laundry when he felt like it. John elected to say nothing, and Sherlock accepted the tea he offered him. He continued to bounce the baby in his arm, sipping his tea.

"So." He said eventually. Sherlock gave the slightest twitch of his head – yes, what? - and John cleared his throat. "Um. Who is she, then?"

"You're repeating yourself."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Members of that Homeless Network of yours?" John could figure that much out on his own, at least. Nothing else really made sense. John took the slight twitch of his flatmate's mouth – good, John, you're learning – as a confirmation. He let it go; if Sherlock was okay with some random homeless woman in their flat, well. Why shouldn't he be? He trusted her – at least enough to let her alone in their flat for a run down to Tesco's - and that was enough for John. The flat was relatively silent for the next ten minutes, until the bathroom door swung open. Rosie stepped out, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown and drying her hair with a towel. Sherlock immediately jumped up from his seat on the couch and crossed over to her, holding out Arthur.

"You've been good to Ol' Grey Brain, Arthur?" She cooed at him as she took him from Sherlock's arms. He huffed. "Don't call me that. I am not a child anymore, Ro-"

"Yes, you are, and you always will be." She snapped back. She propped the sleeping baby against her shoulder and said, "Mind if I use it agai-"

"Don't ask stupid questions." Sherlock snapped back. John was intrigued. How well did this woman know Sherlock – and for how long?

Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and threw himself back on the couch. "Give John the clothes, he'll put them in the wash with yours."

Rosie only smiled fondly at his brooding grunt, then turned to John with a smile. She was quite pretty, John realized – and a lot older than she appeared before, at least five years Sherlock's senior. "You put up with a lot, love. Thanks for that." She gave his face a short pat, then moved back into the living room. "Your face'll stick that way if you don't watch it, Sherlock!" She shouted into the flat. Sherlock's reply was simply an unintelligible grunt – it was more fond than anything, though.

Hours later, after Rosie's departure, John and Sherlock sat in the living room. The telly was on, and neither one was watching, not really; Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, hands steepled at his chin. John was in his chair, typing up his latest blog post. The telly was background noise – neither one liked when the flat was quiet.

"You didn't owe her."

"Mm?" John glanced over at Sherlock. "I said, you didn't owe her."

"Hardly." Sherlock replied. He closed his eyes, returned his hands to his chin. " She helped me on a case a while back. I didn't have any money to give her at the time, so..." John turned back to his computer screen. "She needed formula. I had the means to give it to her." And if she and her baby got a shower and clean clothes while they were there – well. John smiled, shaking his head, and glanced at Sherlock. There was a ghost of a smile on his face that he knew he was intended to see. John's smile widened.

He returned to his blog.


	2. The Pack

Every time Sherlock and John completed a case, Sherlock would leave the flat the following evening and not return until the next morning. John didn't know where he went, and Sherlock never told him. John was perfectly fine with this; everyone had their own peculiar little habits, and if Sherlock wanted him to know where he went each time he would tell him. He never showed any signs of recent drug use or anything else suspicious, so he figured there was no harm in leaving him be.

Eventually, though, he did tell him.

Well. Sort of.

It was the morning after another successful case. Sherlock had passed out on the couch – as usual – and John was at the kitchen table drinking his third cup of tea and typing a rough draft of their case for the blog. John glanced at the clock on the wall – almost nine. Sherlock would wake up any moment now – his sleep schedule was very consistent (when he even bothered to sleep, that is.)

Two minutes later, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen. His hair was fluffy and sleep rumpled, his eyes still puffy and half closed. "Coffee." He grunted. He slid into the seat across from John's and lay his head on the table top. John rolled his eyes, but complied; Sherlock would be much more interesting once he was awake all the way.

After drinking two cups of coffee, Sherlock suddenly rushed from the room in a flurry of movement. John didn't even glance up at him, so used to the random chaos that was his flatmate. After a few moments, Sherlock returned, now dressed in his usual impeccable manor and looking for all the world that he hadn't woken up only twenty minutes ago. The bastard. He slid into the seat once more and propped his elbows on the table top, steepleing his fingers beneath his chin and giving John a piercing stare. John continued to type.

_Tap... tap tap...tap tap tap..._

"John."

_Tap tap tap...tap tap..._

"**John.**"

…_...Tap tap... _"Yes, Sherlock?"_ ...tap tap taptap..._

"We're going out tonight."

_Tap ta- _John blinked at his laptop screen. "...Sorry?" He said slowly, turning his confused gaze up to his flatmate. Sherlock flashed him a small, wicked grin and continued. "We're going out tonight."

"Um." John arched an eyebrow. "Where would we be going?" They weren't on a case right now – no blindly following the detective when he could help it.

"To a party."

…...What?

"...You're going to a party." John replied cautiously.

"No, we're going to a party." He huffed moodily, as if annoyed by the fact that he had to repeat himself not once, not twice, but three times in the past ten minutes. He sipped his coffee haughtily.

"What sort of party is this?" He wasn't sure what counted as a party to Sherlock Holmes, but he was pretty sure that it was far, far different than what he did.

"Don't act so apprehensive, John, honestly." He rolled his eyes. "Just be ready by seven. Dress warm." And with that, he left. John stared at his chair long after he left the kitchen, long after he heard the front door slam open and shut.

Well.

Apparently, he was attending a party each time they finished a case. Maybe Angelo threw him a little celebration feast when he found out – he wouldn't put it past the man. But Sherlock wouldn't attend something like that. Would he?

John spent the rest of the morning in a confused, yet excited daze. When he left for work he was still speculating what he could possibly have ahead of him that evening.

When Sherlock bursts into John's room that evening, the first thing John notices is that Sherlock has changed out of his his usual elegant button up and trousers and into a far less impressive ensemble – a thick well worn grey jumper and a pair of faded jeans. He's holding a thick coat that John has never seen before and is winding his trademark blue scarf around his neck when he scoffs and says, "Honestly, John, I said to dress warm."

John gapes at him for a few moments, then scowls. "I'm dressed plenty warm, thank you!" He glanced down at his own clothes – one of his thicker jumpers and his favorite pair of jeans. He was even wearing layers, how could – Sherlock cut him off briskly and threw open his closet door. "Not warm enough, you'll freeze." He shuffled through John's closet as if it were his own and threw a few articles of clothing at him – his oatmeal cable-knit jumper and an old leather jacket from his younger days. "Put those on over your clothes – yes, really." John was almost touched – was this concern? - but Sherlock left the room before he could really figure out. John glanced over at the alarm clock by his bed – 6:46. Nearly time to go, then. He pulled on the jumper as he followed Sherlock down the stairs.

"Where exactly is this party?"

Sherlock, somewhat predictably, didn't reply. He pulled on the heavy coat and pocketed his phone and keys, then glanced up at John, let out an extremely put-upon sigh, "John, honestly, get your shoes on, we're wasting time." John bit back a sigh and complied. As soon as his shoes and coat were tied and zipped up, Sherlock strode down the stairs. John trailed after him.

John locked the door to 221B behind him and turned, expecting to see Sherlock waiting impatiently by a familiar black cab. However, Sherlock gave him a short nod, then turned on his heel and started down the sidewalk. John shrugged. He followed him.

They had been walking for about fifteen minutes when John realized he had absolutely no idea where they were going – still. "Sherlock, where-"

"Nearly there, John." He assured him. John frowned. There was something odd about his voice. He couldn't place what it was exactly, but he knew there was something there. He brushed it aside and quickened his pace.

Only a few moments after their short exchange, Sherlock stopped. The street they were on was in a more run-down part of London. John knew it, but only in passing – he and Sherlock had ran down these streets more times than he cared to remember. He cursed as Sherlock pulled out his lock picks and approached a nearby building. It was old – clearly abandoned, it's windows boarded up with weather-worn planks of rotting wood and chunks of brick and concrete missing here and there – and Sherlock opened the door in what John was sure was record breaking time. As Sherlock swung open the door with a smug grin, John hissed, "Sherlock, what the hell are you playing at?"

But Sherlock ignored him – did that a lot, actually – and strode into the building. "Do close the door behind you, John." And John did. Sherlock led him up a flight of ancient stairs, the steps creaking with each step. John followed.

They stopped a few floors up. Sherlock froze at the top of the stairs, hands stuffed in his pockets, and seemed to be thinking. John waited. And waited. And waited.

After six minutes, he finally cracked. "Sherlock?" He looked him up and down, his smile pinching into an amused smile. "This a party, then?"

Then, with the abruptness of a light switch, Sherlock returned to normal. His thoughtful – and almost cautious – expression curled into his usual scowl, and John let out a sigh of relief. "Of course not, John, don't be coy." He strode down the hallway and knocked on the farthest door on the right. John followed, amused, and stood at his elbow. Faint music was playing on the other side of the door.

The door opened just a crack. In the small gap between the door and the wall, a wide withered eye stared up at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back. In a hushed, raspy voice, the owner asked, "Password?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, his face otherwise blank. "Speck."

The eye stared at him for a few more moments, then turned it's gaze to John. "He," Sherlock raised his voice a bit, "is a friend. I brought him."

"Does he have it?" It hissed. John heard an annoyed cry of 'Daisy, honestly!' behind the door. But Sherlock simply shook his head. "I checked him myself on the way over. He's clean, we can trust him, Daisy." After only a moments hesitation, the door slammed shut. The sound of chains and locks unlocking filled the hallway for a moment, then the door swung open. Sherlock and John entered.

The moment they stepped through the door Sherlock was tackled. John stiffened, instantly on edge for a fight, then noticed that his partner was being... hugged?

Sherlock staggered, letting out an amusing breathless grunt, and his back hit the wall. "Crystal!" He huffed.

Crystal pulled back a bit and grinned down at him. She was huge, almost a head taller than Sherlock, and sported many layers of stained and patched clothing – skirts and jumpers and more than a few coats – but in her long dark blonde hair was a green sequined bow. And then she laughed – and John realized she was actually a he. "You're late, Grey Brain. Getting slow in your old age?" He teased. Sherlock scoffed and pushed him off - "Hardly." Crystal rolled his eyes and looped an arm through Sherlock's, then blinked at John in surprise. "Oh." He shifted his weight. "Who's this?"

"John." Sherlock replied. Crystal's eyes widened comically. "Ooh!" He said softly, a strange smirk covering his face. Sherlock elbowed him and scowled. Crystal ran into the room before them and cried, "Sherly's brought a friend, Sherly's brought a friend!"

Sherlock glared after him. He turned to John and muttered, "We have approximately twenty seconds of peace. If you want to run, now would be your chance."

"Well," John replied softly, "what exactly am I running from?"

"... Some... colleagues of mine." He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Homeless Network?" He remembered the incident with Rosie and Arthur a few weeks ago. Sherlock nodded.  
"You could say that they were the first 'members.'" He straightened his coat. "I've known most of them since I was a small boy."

Oh.

"Well. I." John cleared his throat and pulled his coat tighter around himself. "Best not keep them waiting, yeah?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, then gave him that small smile that John so loved – the smile that meant he had surprised the detective. He led John through the dim hallway and into the next room – a living room-kitchen combo, apparently.

Well. It was supposed to be.

On the far side of the room there were two sets of bunk beds – Rosie sat on one of the top bunks, Arthur in her arms – and against the opposite wall was another slightly larger bed. There was a long table in the center of the room. A small battery radio sat on it, walls of empty takeaway boxes surrounding it. The room was lit entirely by candles, which gave everything a golden sheen. Crystal was seated on the floor by the large bed, his knees folded underneath him. Next to him was a dark skinned elderly man, his charcoal colored hair streaked with white and grey and a knowing smirk on his face. He held out his hand expectantly, and Sherlock immediately took it. He shook Sherlock's hand with both of his and said in a deep friendly voice, "Caught him, then? Well done, boy, well done." Sherlock's lips quirked, but he said nothing. He turned around to John – John took a few steps forward – and Sherlock straightened, releasing the man's hand. He arched a dark grey eyebrow and scratched his chin, leaning up against the wall. "So," He gave Sherlock a calm stare, "Who's this, then?"

"This is my partner, John Watson. John, this," He gestured to the man, "is Boss."

John gave him a short nod, but stayed silent. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, really. But Boss wasn't offended. In fact, he laughed, shaking his head, and held his hand out to him. As they shook hands, Boss said, "So this is the famous army doctor? Nice to finally have a face to go with the name."

"Told you he was cute." Rosie commented. Crystal giggled and nodded. He felt his face heat up.

"Yeah, sorry, um. Sherlock's never mentioned you...? Any of you, actually?"

The room went silent.

Then Boss picked up an empty takeaway box and threw it at Sherlock's head. Sherlock cried out in surprise and slunk away. "Boss!" You could almost hear the pout in his voice. Boss held up a finger and Sherlock instantly went silent. John wondered if he could teach him whatever magic trick he was using. "Not a word, Grey Brain. Kitchen. Now." And, to John's further amazement, he did go to the kitchen - moodily, with his shoulders slumped and a scowl, but he still went.

Boss patted the space on the mattress next to him and sighed. "Sit on down, son. I've got a bit of a story to tell you."

"Don't touch him!"

John jumped, then looked around in confusion – who had said that? Crystal sighed heavily and stood, heading for the bunk beds. He moved aside a large mound of pillows and blankets in far corner of the one furthest from John and Boss to reveal an ancient woman – the one who opened the door. She gave John a murderous glare. Crystal sat in front of her and placed his hands on the side of her face. "He's clean, Daisy. Really. Would Grey Brain lie to you?"

Daisy kept her eyes on John, but went silent. She let a noise that was almost a growl and pulled the blanket over her head. Crystal sighed dramatically and shrugged his shoulders. Boss cleared his throat. John turned back to him.

"You have absolutely no idea what's going on, do you?"

"Not a clue, no."

Boss sighed heavily and shook his head. "It's not entirely my story to tell. But here's the gist of it, kid." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. "When Sherlock was a tyke, he got lost in London. The Pack found him, watched over him for a few days, then brought him back to his Momma." He sniffed. "Well, he found us again the next year, round the same time. And the next year. And the next. He lived with us for a bit when he was supposed to be in university, too, actually."

Crystal grinned and pressed a kiss to the side of Boss's head. "Boss taught him the city." He said fondly. John felt a rush of excitement and curiosity fill up his belly. These people knew Sherlock, really, really knew him.

He had so many questions, so many things that he wanted to know, but... none of them seemed right. And with Boss looking at him like that – like he was suddenly being quizzed by a wise old teacher – well. He found that he wanted to make a good impression, though he wasn't sure why. So he settled with, "The Pack... what's that, exactly?"

This was apparently the right answer, because Boss gave him an approving smirk. "I am Boss, as you already know. I suppose you could call me the leader of our little group." He laced a hand through Crystal's. "This is my girl, Crystal. He's been my wing man since the beginning."

Crystal swatted his arm fondly, then shook John's hand. John grinned and placed a kiss to his hand, earning a surprised giggle from the man. "Charmed."

"I should say so," Crystal was blushing. She leaned toward the kitchen area."Sherlock, sweetie, you'd better snatch this one up if you haven't already!"

"I-I'm not-"

"Shut up." Sherlock called back calmly. John felt his neck heat up, but did not comment, returning to Boss's introduction of the Pack. "Up on top are Rosie and Arthur, though you've already met them, I believe. Down below is Crazy Daisy. She thinks you're infected with an alien pod, and no, there is no way to convince her otherwise, so don't bother. She barely trusts us." He gestured to the kitchen again. "In there with Sherlock is Forrester. Don't mention trains around him and you'll get along fine." He gestured grandly around the dingy little flat, proud as a king. "And throw in Grey Brain and you've got yourself the Pack."

"So... you're a..."

"A pack of hobos," Rosie smirked, "yes. Well. Cept for 'Omes."

"No, no, I was..." John licked his lips. "I was going to say... you're a sort of patch-work family."

Boss smiled warmly, and John was sure he had said the right thing.

Just then, Sherlock reentered the living room area and sat regally on John's other side. A tall and lanky boy followed him, floppy bronze hair hanging in his eyes. A pair of thick black rimmed glasses was perched on his nose. They were both carrying plates loaded with food – all from places that he and Sherlock frequented. The boy – Forrester, apparently – handed Crystal a plate, then Rosie. He put one near the mound of pillows and blankets that Crazy Daisy was hiding under, then climbed up one of the bunk beds and crawled underneath the blanket.

Sherlock gave John a plate, then passed one over to Boss. Crystal pressed a button on the radio on the table, and, over the soft sounds of what John would later realize was the Clash, asked them about the case.

The sun was just starting to rise by the time they reached Baker Street. John felt loose and content. The Pack was lovely company, and Sherlock had never been so at ease before – even now there was a small barely noticeable smile covering the usually cold detective's face. They stopped at 221B as John dug his keys out of his pockets. He glanced up at Sherlock as he unlocked the door.

He had to ask.

"So. Why did you bring me by tonight?" Last night. Yesterday. This morning? What bloody time was it?

Sherlock's smile widened for the briefest of moments.

"I like the people I trust most to know of each other."

The door opened, and Sherlock strode past him.

John watched him go up the stairs.


End file.
